Message-ID: <37803asstr$1028959804@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: Max_Wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam) X-Original-Message-ID: <527ece6d.0208091519.2b6045fc@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Aug 2002 23:19:58 GMT X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 9 Aug 2002 16:19:58 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} Fish Tank Ch. 5 (MF) Date: Sat, 10 Aug 2002 02:10:04 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: kelly, gill-bates NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam The Fish Tank in honor of ASSD's FishTank Chapter 5 (of 5) By theGreatxIam Pete hadn't even gotten back to sleep on the couch before the producers were gathering. Like their cousins, the vampires, producers are up all night -- although, in their case, it's because of dyspepsia, not porphyria. The fate of "The Fish Tank" had been heavy on their minds and stomachs all week. Pete's steadfast refusal to take on new challenges had stymied them. This late in the season, they couldn't afford to throw him out. Not that they didn't consider it, but the only alternative would have been to put Jon back in, and he had been ridiculed by the critics so viciously that no one wanted that. The critics -- there, one producer said, there was the problem. Always giving the show grief about having no redeeming social value. How about keeping the crew and executives working? What about that for social value? The others grumbled their agreement, but no one really wanted to dwell on bad feelings. It was a night for celebrating. The last two Tank players were fighting again. All was right with the world. After a week of nothing to shoot, there was hope for fireworks from the live segment. Hastily they redid the schedule, whittling away at the taped bits to give Pete and Des more time to argue. They tinkered with the rules a bit, too. Not very sporting of them so late in the game, but all's fair in love and ratings. Everyone was giggly with excitement and sleep deprivation by the time they were through. The last task left was one usually left to the director, but this wasn't a night to stand on ceremony. One of the producers had a great idea for the music to play in the background as they led into the live segment, and it was so ordered. "Love Me Tender," it would be. ---- ---- ---- Pete and Des battled just as nastily as the producers had hoped. Halfway through the show, she had already called him a two-faced eunuch and he had been similarly complimentary. And that was even before the producers dropped two bombshells. First, with appropriate fanfare, it was announced that the prize to the ultimate winner was being doubled, to a record high for any game show. Much more quietly, it was explained that second-place money was being cut in half. Second, the host said, there was a slight revision of the rules, as allowed by the rules themselves. The final winner would be chosen not by the live audience, but by a national poll. Immediately after saying that, the host ducked. It was written right into his script, because the director knew better than to expect the host to be able to improvise his way out of the way of flung bric-a-brac. Thus the glass paperweight that Des threw sailed neatly over the host's head. It did clock a stagehand, but since the Teamsters have an excellent disability package, no one much minded that. "What's the matter, Des?" Pete was at his snarkiest. "No faith in the judgments of your country? Or do you have too much faith? You know you're going to lose, don't you?" "That's just because the people don't know what an asshole you are," she snarled. "They don't understand what you're really like." "Ah, you don't think they're smart, do you? I think they are. Smart enough to see through "The Fish Tank," for sure. Smart enough to see this ploy by the producers for what it is, a blatant attempt to freeze me out." "What?" "That's right. Oh, don't you deny it. You've been in cahoots with them all along. I see it now. Who got all the face time? Des the Destroyer, of course. Who tried to stop me when I called their bluff? Same old Des. And now they think they can fool the people with their last-minute hijinks and your phony act, 'woe is me, how dare they change the rules.' "The people at home won't be fooled any longer. Not by you, not by those scheming producers. It's over, Des. It's all over. America will have the final say. And I say, God bless America." ---- ---- ---- That night, the Ichthyologists didn't light their candles. They weren't even at the Tank. Instead, they had convened at a Starbuck's several blocks away. Bedlam reigned. One faction wanted to lynch the producers for changing the rules. "There's something fishy about this," a thin-voiced young man said, before being pelted with Nutrasweet packets. Another group wanted to lynch Pete, whom they found suspicious. A third was eager to string up Des, and all of Pete's enemies, for selling out. The rest were neutral, which is to say they took no sides and would be agreeable to any lynching they could get. There was general acceptance of only one statement: "It's an outrage." Precisely what "it" was could be left for subcommittee discussions. Whatever, it was an outrage, and so outrageous an outrage that one overwrought soul demanded they take real action: a boycott. "Yeah," said another, "he's right! Screw 'em all! We'll just go back to our real lives and forget the Tank!" "Point of order! Point of order!" The cry came from the back of the room. The chair recognized the delegate from Pomona. "And what is your point of order?" "We don't have real lives." "Point taken. The motion for a boycott is overruled." ---- ---- ---- The Ichthyologists hadn't missed much back at the Tank. Des alternated all evening between glaring at Pete and ignoring him completely. She went to bed without a word. When he crawled in and opened his mouth, she silently gathered pillows and blanket and stomped off to the living room couch. So it went for two more days. On the afternoon of the third day, Des was on the toilet -- mercifully, it was white porcelain, and long shirts have their uses -- when there was a tap on the wall next to her. She looked up. A sign was taped to the other side, in the hallway. It read, "I think it's going well so far. Don't you?" Standing behind the sign, Pete had his thumbs up and was grinning maniacally. She shook her head and looked away. The next communication was written in Alphabits on her morning pastry. "Thanx partner," it said. She swept the cereal off and grumbled through her coffee before heading to the bathroom to shower. She looked in the mirror and almost leaped through the ceiling. "We've got em now," said the writing on her forehead. She confronted him in the living room. "Talk," she said. "What, are you sure? Because I've tried, but you --" "Talk." He explained it then. Or at least he offered a plausible scenario. It was all about the game, he said. As long as every player stuck to stereotypes, the producers had control. They could slot everyone into categories and guarantee results. But if you started veering off course, that control disappeared. And he had looked over his fellow players and decided she was the most likely to be able to pull it off. When Jon had even suggested the team, that made it perfect. "Why," she asked, "if this was your plan all along, why didn't you tell me before?" "Would you have gone along if I did? Would you have believed me?" "I don't believe you now." "Exactly my point!" She sat back and stared upward for several minutes before looking at him again. "So," she said, "so why tell me now?" "Because it's OK," he said. "Because we've won." "What we, kimo sabe? You're scooping the big prize. I get just this side of nothing." "The prizes don't matter. It's the endorsements, the personal appearances, the tell-all book. And we're gonna strike it rich. There's never been a season like this one. All because you followed my lead." "I did?" "Sure. You were perfect. Just keep it up, no matter what I do, no matter what I say. If I tell you it's midnight when the sun is burning through these walls, you just say yes and go to bed. If I say the water's cold even though there's steam, draw a glass and drink it down. Do it my way and we can't go wrong." She rubbed her nose. "Wait. How do I know this isn't some weird ploy to make sure you win?" "Oh, right, you caught me. I was tricking you. You really should do exactly the opposite. Don't believe a word I say. Or maybe ..." He got up, leaned over her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I was fooling, and you'd do the opposite of what I said. So you should do what I say." He pulled back and started to walk away, then turned to her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I knew you'd know I was fooling, so -- let's see, the inverse of the inverse of the inverse -- yeah, so you shouldn't believe anything. Or maybe --" She hit him squarely in the face with a pillow. "I'm withholding judgment," she said. "But tell me more about those endorsements." ---- ---- ---- Through the rest of the week, they fenced over Pete's offer. On the one hand, Des said, she assumed she had nothing to lose. On the other, what if the polls were wrong? What if she was being suckered out of a prize that could solve so many problems -- paying off the house at last, helping the kids with theirs, even -- dared she dream -- retirement? "I keep thinking," she told the camera the day before the final show, "I keep thinking, what if he has some last-minute surprise brewing? Something that will blow me away. "But then I think, maybe he's already done it. He's kept me so busy wondering that I haven't done anything to help myself. Maybe that's what he planned all along. "It's like these walls were mirrors instead of clear -- every argument reflects back on itself. "It sucks, is what it is. "I mean, take the bed. After we talked this week, I still didn't trust him, and I told him to keep away from me. And he did. A perfect gentleman. "Now, does that mean he's sincere? Or does it mean he doesn't find me hard to resist? "I'd like to trust him. He certainly stuck it to you guys, and I respect that. But -- I don't know." ---- ---- ---- The Fish Tank was more like a beehive on the night of the final show. Producers, crew, network executives all flitted in and out, with their attempts to look important being in inverse proportion to their actual roles in the proceedings. The crowd outside had swelled. Rumors flew that both players had something special planned to sway the nation their way during the two hours voting would be open. In two dozen languages, camera crews shouted at one another as they tried to disentangle miles of cables so reporters could beam back to their home countries from what had become the most famous TV show ever. One of the producers was kept busy explaining again and again why only Americans could vote. "We're caught in a trap," s/he said, "and we can't get out. There are rules, and time zones, and phone lines. It's complicated." What about claims that the contest was fixed? "Suspicious minds" was the dismissive reply. At last the hour arrived. The crowd quieted. The lights flicked on. The theme music rolled out. And then Pete walked toward the cameras, smiled, and said, "I quit." The host was stunned into silence, but the scream from the producers could be heard quite clearly from the producers, an anguished "What?" "I quit," he said again, with a smile. "I give up. I throw in the towel. Des wins. She gets the money. Show's over. Good night, folks." In New Zealand, a man watching the satellite feed while at work was momentarily distracted, an event that his ram, "Old Lop-Ear," resents to this day. In a Palm Beach, Fla., nursing home, 16 heart monitors went off at once. The old folks survived. Two nurses passed out, however, and an estate lawyer who happened to be visiting ran himself ragged getting signatures and later expired unnoticed in the parking lot. In the street where the Tank sat, three dozen residents flung open their windows, startled by an almost forgotten sound: Silence. ---- ---- ---- By the time the show was supposed to have gone off the air, Pete and Des were the only two people left inside. Everyone else had drifted away in shock, leaving their equipment untouched. The lights still blazed, the tape recorders whirred. Outside, the crowd remained, but they had retreated several feet from the house, as if it would burn them if they got too close. They stared blankly. Their lips moved, but no sound came out. Pete and Des both walked through the house, each finding different memories. They met in the master bedroom. "So," she said. "So," he answered. "Why?" "It was the only way you'd believe me," he said quietly. "And, like I said, the only way to win is to do the unexpected." "But you lost." "Did I?" He got onto the bare mattress, its bedding stripped off by the cleaning crew before the show began. "I think I'm going to win the big prize." She smiled. "You do, do you?" "Yes," he said, unbuttoning his shirt. "But sir, all the lights are so bright. I'm too shy." "The lights are off," he said. "It's pitch black." "Ah. Now I see. You're right. But the walls are glass. People will see us." "The walls are solid wood. No one can see." "How right you are," she said, sliding her skirt to the floor. For the first time, one Ichthyologist later said, people felt ashamed to be watching. Some left. Others turned their backs. What they didn't see, the reader can well imagine. Indeed, perhaps imagine better than words can tell. Or not. The words we have describe physical acts, of which there were many. They explored each other in myriad ways, and this time there was no turning back. They kissed, caressed, licked, probed. Pete proved to be more than capable of pleasing Des, and demonstrated that ability several times. She returned the favor. They were both energetic, more than one might expect for their ages. And yet there was not just a frenzy to their love-making, but a passion and even a grace. It was long after they had begun, and after more than one peak had been reached, that they locked into a perfect groove. Their movements were exact complements. Like a child on a swing, going higher and higher by stretching out at just the right moments, they pushed each other further and further to ecstasy. Sweat rolled down Pete's back as he lay between Des' spread legs, pressing himself into her again and again. She responded, hips rising to meet him, to take him deep inside. "Oh," he whispered, "do you feel it?" "Yes," she said, "yes, it's so close." "Oh, yes," he cried. "Almost," she answered, "just -- just --" He shouted, she moaned. Her legs closed about him, clutched at him as her body heaved. He buried himself completely in her. They stayed like that, locked together, for several minutes before they collapsed next to each other, breath coming in gasps. ---- ---- ---- When we left Pete and Des at Larry King's show, the reader is asked to recall, she had just completed an act of fellatio that shook six continents. When the initial shock was over, the other women on the show reacted with disgust. Their distaste, it became clear, was not with the act itself -- her technique could hardly be faulted -- but with the way she had so swiftly and wantonly acceded to Pete's command. Des replied that he would do the same for her, and moved to demonstrate her point by lifting her skirt. Only the collapse of Larry King face first onto his desk interrupted the encore. The guests were shoved aside as the paramedics rushed in. Charlotte and Teresa continued to criticize Des, calling her a submissive slut. "You can't think for yourself," Teresa said. Des demurred as she kicked Teresa in the shin with the pointy toe of her red pump. "I think for myself," she said. "I think that I like things the way they are." "But he just snaps his fingers and you do what he says," Teresa complained, trying to get at Des but being held back by Charles. "It won for us," Des said. "But that was a game. This is real life!" "Life's a game. Don't you get it? It's all about knowing what you want. I want a husband and a lover and a friend all in one, and I got him." "You got him by giving up yourself." "You ever faked an orgasm to make a guy happy? You ever have a guy pretend to be moved by a sunset so you would think he was all sensitive? "Ever have a guy say 'Oh, honey, this stew is delicious,' because he knew you wanted him too? Ever tell a guy, 'No, really, your dick's not small at all?' " Tony shifted in his seat. Des put her hand on Pete's arm and walked away. Just before they disappeared around a wall, she turned back. "Everybody tries to game life," she said. "Everybody decides what they want and what they'll do to get it. You don't like my choice, tough. But before you start criticizing me, think about all the games you play. "And remember what they say about people who live in glass houses." The End For the complete story and more, visit http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/theGreatxIam/www For more about the FishTank, a place for writers to get feedback, visit http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/base/index.html -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+